


polaroid

by decidingdolan



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 01:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1451062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Steve makes a discovery, Bucky makes a confession, and feelings are declared. (College AU).</p>
            </blockquote>





	polaroid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peiyen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peiyen/gifts).



Neat as Steve was, Bucky was pretty much the opposite.

He’s left things—crumbled notepapers, bubblegum wrappers, last semester’s schedule, ticket to that Ella Fitzgerald concert he’d gone to with Steve because no one else was free (Steve couldn’t find other reasons why)—lying around, scattered all over his desk.

They were roommates, and Steve was perfectly aware of that. He’s kept to himself and treated Bucky’s space/side of the room as off-limits, always.

Until tonight.

It’s a little after 9pm. Bucky’s not yet back in the room. Steve, the sketch for his still-life project half-finished, decided to take a small break.

He made tea (oh, the smell, the sweet, sweet smell), took a sip, and strolled around the room, the mug still in one hand.

Just as he was finishing his second round of walk, passing Bucky’s desk, a corner of a photo sticking out underneath a pile of Bucky’s essay drafts caught his eye.

Steve stopped in front of the desk, looked around—as if Bucky could appear right at this moment and block him from getting to the desk.

One more sweeping glance.

All clear.

He stepped closer to the desk, his free hand fishing out the photo.

His jaw dropped.

It was a polaroid snap of Bucky, clad in jeans and the sinfully thin, navy blue v-neck tee Steve had a not-so-secret fondness for, sandwiched between a brunette and a blonde. The brunette had her bare back to the camera, body pressed up against Bucky, whose hand reached out to cup the waistband of her jeans, a thumb slipping inside. The blonde, wearing black tank top and jeans, had her side to Bucky, lips hovering close to his ear.

What drew Steve’s attention (and quickened his pulse) was the look in Bucky’s eyes. That daredevil, lustful look, practically an invitiation for the world, for anyone, to join his party of three.

Blood throbbed in his head and rushed south, down his body. His heartbeats started in a series of want, want, want, and Steve wanted, wanted to ask the questions he’d never had clear in his mind before this moment.

Because he’s been telling himself not to care.

That Bucky was Bucky, and that that girl kissing the living daylights out of him, hand mussing up his hair, in front of the room when he happened to walk past one morning was another one of his conquests. Was a normal occurrence. That the girls that Bucky’s always taking back to their room were blonde, all blonde, and blue-eyed, because they were Bucky’s type, because that’s what his best friend preferred in girls, because that’s what his confidante looked for in women. And nothing else.

That Bucky’s enjoyed himself with those girls—because why not? Because had he looked twice at Steve while he’s with them? While he’s busy tasting, touching, drinking them in, his eyes glazed over with delirium (at least, that’s what Steve chose to view them to project)? That Bucky’s popular and sought after and good with the ladies and it’s a statement of fact that he shouldn’t worry himself about.

(Steve _was_ , after all, dating another art major, a lithe, cute little thing, with her hair cropped short into a bob and a playful smirk that appeared on her face whenever she spotted him. Becky…wasn’t that her name?)

But the eyes—the eyes, Bucky’s eyes in the photo seemed to see straight through him. It was like an alarm clock—with its noisy, custom iPhone rings—was switched on in Steve’s head and continued to snooze, incessant, oblivious of an “off” switch.

Bucky. Bucky. _Bucky._

Why?

Why not him?

He wanted. His lips were dry, and he knew he wanted Bucky. He wanted Bucky to look at him that way, hungry and debauched and wanting. Wanting him just as much, just as badly as he was, staring at this photo and dying, dying to risk their friendship….just to have Bucky touch him…hell, take him, ruin him, make a mess out of him….kiss him and slip his hands under his waistband and…

(Goddamn, Rogers. What is wrong with you?)

Steve’s other hand holding the mug shook, and a drop of tea spilled on the photo before he could stop himself.

Shit.

Evidence.

_Not good._

The photo still in hand, he walked over to his side of the room and placed the mug there. (There, wasn’t that so hard to do? Not when curiosity had the better of him.) Hand’s free, finally.

He turned around, about to go to Bucky’s desk one last time (god knows he’s not going to risk this kind of spying on his roommate again. He’s never been a natural at covert affairs.), when he heard sounds of keys turning in the lock.

Steve froze.

The door opened, and in walked Bucky in his usual leather jacket, t-shirt, and jeans combination, a messenger bag slung across his shoulder.

Bucky raised an eyebrow at Steve’s doe-eyed expression.

“What’s the matter, Rogers? You’re looking like Tony Stark’s trashed our room, which, judging by its current state, I’m assuming hasn’t happened, or….oh. _Oh._ ”

Bucky’s teasing sentence trailed off when he noticed what Steve was holding onto in one hand.

His lips curled into an “O,” his last word barely a whisper.

Heat bloomed in Steve’s cheeks. “I’m—I’m sorry,” he said, handing the stained polaroid back to Bucky, the second he managed to regain traces of the reality surrounding him, “I didn’t mean to—it just…”

Bucky took the photo from Steve’s stretched hand and threw it over his head. It landed perfectly in the bin behind him.

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, it’s only a picture. Doesn’t mean anything.” Bucky was studying Steve, eyes probing the other’s. “Unless you wanted it to—“

On one hand, it could have been a careless slip of tongue…the other, could have been a strategically planted bait….

Steve wouldn’t know.

“You’re blushing,” Bucky stated.

Steve could have said the million words buzzing in his head to Bucky, all at once, all rushing out of him like a broken dam, all jumbled phrases and nonsense that translated as logic in his mind. Could have given Bucky a light shove and went back to his side of the room, where nothing rarely ever happened. Could have pretended oblivion and ended the matter then and there. Could have…coul—

“I want you,” he blurted out.

Bucky’s eyes widened, his mouth gaping slightly.

Before he could get in a word, Steve continued. “I want you, Buck. I mean, it’s been hanging over me….you’ve been with all these girls, and obviously you’re not intereste—“

“Are you kidding me?” Bucky ran a hand through his hair. “Are you _kidding_ me, Rogers? Haven’t you—“ he breathed mid-sentence, swallowing in a phrase, a hand brushing the front pocket of his jeans, “They’re you.”

“Supposed to be, whatever,” Bucky gestured at Steve, hands splaying in the air, drawing no shapes in particular, “They’re blonde. They’re gorgeous. They’re fun. They kiss great. They fuck like there’s no tomorrow, and it helps me forget, Steve, helps me forget that they’re not you.”

Steve’s heart was doing gymnastics.

“Shit coping mechanism, I know,” Bucky chuckled, “But you know me. What else was I gonna do? Like you would ever look at me like you want me and say you _do_ want me…“ he was rambling, as he tended to do when secrets started spilling out.

“I want you, Steve, honest to god, I want you, since when I don’t know, but I’ve been here, in my place, right here, with you….but not with you….for fuck knows how long…and _jesus_...I’ll be damned, but I should have done this yesterday.”

In a heartbeat, Bucky’s hands were clasped around Steve’s neck, warm, familiar, and he was kissing him.

Steve had a stupid smile on his face when they broke apart. Bucky was grinning, satisfied, and Steve could have sworn Bucky’s look in that polaroid was burning in those eyes.

Except it was directed at him, locked on him, and not static, frozen in a snapshot of time.

No. Bucky, the Bucky whose hands were now at Steve’s waist, lips hovering close to his ear, whispering a “How _do_ you want me?” that sent Steve’s nerves scrambling, was very, very much alive.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by http://24.media.tumblr.com/c1940e4f240c983deb9986ff996d52e7/tumblr_n3sipn8BAl1qe154io1_500.jpg.
> 
> Thank you all for stopping by, reading, and reviewing! You mean the world to this stressed girl taking a break from studying! (it's late and I'm up all night (writing) to get Bucky.) <3


End file.
